


The Doctor watches...

by Mycroffed



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Engagedlock, Johnlock - Freeform, Kidlock, M/M, Unilock, Wholock, mormor, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-11
Updated: 2014-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-04 06:35:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1769221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mycroffed/pseuds/Mycroffed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the Doctor by accident stumbles upon the lives of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, he decides to watch the boys as they grow up, but not in the right order of course, after all, he still is the Doctor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fanfic I ever wrote. And I have to tell you, I couldn't have done it without Sara. So, Sara, thank you very much, this one's for you.  
> Don't hesitate to leave any comments, they really make my day.

John Watson looked at her. His girl. His Sara. He gave her a big, warm smile. Normally, Sara always answered his smile with one of her own, but today the absence of a smile was the first thing that alarmed John.

'Are you okay?' He asked.

She sighed. Sara refused to look at him. Staring at a point behind his head, she said she wanted to talk to him, tell him something important.

John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock Holmes, his best friend, with whom he shared a flat in the center of London while they were studying at the University. Well, at least John was. The fact that John had turned around to Sherlock seemed to irritate Sara even more.

'John,' she said. 'Now.'

'I'll be back soon. Just wait for a minute,' he mouthed at Sherlock. John knew his friend would be bored and he would have to put up with his mood, but John didn't care. The only thing he wanted was Sara to smile at him like she loved him.

 

They walked a few yards, just enough so that Sherlock couldn't see them from where he was standing in front of the University.

'John, I don't think this will work anymore.'

'This?' John asked reluctantly, knowing he would get a snarky comment.

And he did. 'Us, John. The only thing we have in common.'

'But... Sara... We... I...'

'Very original. Are you sure you wrote those letters yourself?'

John's mind needed a minute to form the right question to ask. 'Why?'

'You've lived with the only consulting detective for over a year now. Isn't it about time you do your own deducing?' Sara turned and walked away.

John looked at her for the last time: her short, light brown hair, always messy, her almond eyes, looking so incredibly sad, like they knew one day, John would understand.

And John just stood there. Just let it all happen. He knew that there was nothing he could do: once Sara had made up her mind, it was impossible to change it again. So John just stayed there, until Sherlock, who had grown bored, came and found him with a single tear rolling over his cheek.

 

_The Doctor hit the screen. 'Come on, why are you showing me this? It's just a boy getting dumped, he'll get over it.'_

_The screen flickered._

_'No, no no no no no, you're not gonna do this, you're not crashing again!' The Doctor started pulling levers and pushing buttons all over the place. It seemed to be working. At least for now, he had an image on his screen again. The image of the same boy, but older, grown-up. There was a hardness in his eyes that was not there before. The few moments the Doctor had seen the boy, he thought the boy was sweet, loyal and loving. Now, all he seemed to notice was this bitterness, like he was sick of living and just wanted to die._

_The Doctor hit the screen again. 'Bring me back, what happened between this moment and the first?' He mumbled. The screen flickered again._

 

John turned away from his laptop with a look of glee on his face. He'd made it, he finally was a proper doctor. Sherlock, who was sitting in his favorite chair with the view over the kitchen, barely looked at John and asked 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing's wrong. I've just graduated. Don't you get it Sherlock, I'm gonna be a doctor!'

'That's nice.' Sherlock returned to his texting. John jumped up and ran across the room. He picked up his jacket and was about to go downstairs when Sherlock called out to ask where he was going.

'To the shop. This moment deserves champagne!'

'You don't have to go to the shop for that. I've already bought a bottle a week ago. I knew you'd make it.'

John smiled. Even though his flat mate could seem so coldhearted, he still cared about John.

'Well, what are you waiting for?' screamed Sherlock. 'You've graduated, let's celebrate this!'

 

Six bottles of champagne later, neither of the two young boys could stand up straight without vomiting or fainting.

'John.' Sherlock slurred. 'I can deduce something.'

'What? What are you going to deduce?' John was sincerely interested. He always liked Sherlock at work, at a crime scene.

'We...' He pointed at the two of them, 'We are drunk.' And then he giggled.

John joined in. 'We are,' he said, wiping the tears of his face. 'Why am I crying?'

'I don't know.' For some reason, both of them thought that was very funny and they burst into laughter.

'We should go to bed,' John said, always being responsible, thinking about what happens next. He got up and almost immediately fell down. If Sherlock wouldn't have caught him, he would have tripped over the small coffee table.

Their faces where only a few inches away from each other. John giggled again.

Sherlock blushed.

They leaned closer and closer.

And then John remembered why he got up. 'Bed.'

'Bed,' Sherlock said, sounding a bit disappointed.

Sherlock grabbed John by his waist and guided him to his bedroom.

'Sherlock, my bedroom...,' John said, 'It's upstairs...'

'But you're in no state to climb those stairs, are you John. You're even more drunk than I am.'

'I'm not drunk!' John protested.

They stumbled to Sherlock's bedroom, leaning on each other, making sure the other didn't fall. Once they got there, they changed into their night clothes. John took off all his clothes until he realized he didn't have any pyjamas with him. So there he was, in his red underwear and at the other side of the room, already lying in bed, a naked Sherlock.

 

_'Maybe I should leave those boys to do their thing,' the Doctor said to himself. And yet again he pulled some levers until he saw the old John again, weeping now, in the same apartment he had seen the two boys getting drunk._

_'Where's Sherlock?' He thought. 'He should be there to comfort John, especially after what they just did.'_

_John looked up, like he knew he was being watched. He mumbled some words and started to weep again. The Doctor rewound the video, so that he could hear the words John had said. '_

_Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?'_

_'There has to be something, something important, or the TARDIS wouldn't show me this couple.' And after those words, the Doctor looked further into the past of the two young boys at 221 B Baker Street._

 

John was running through the rain, trying to avoid getting wet, but it was of no use. Even though the day had started out quite promising with a sky free of clouds, the sun beaming down, rain was now pouring down.

Hearing a distant thunder, John decided it would be better to find a shelter, at least until the rain lessened. In an attempt of making sure Sherlock wouldn't worry about him, John took out him mobile and texted Sherlock.

_Stuck in the storm. Back as soon as possible._

John didn't know what he expected. Would Sherlock text back? It was true that they had shared a bed last night, but nothing had happened. John had volunteered to sleep on the ground, on a thin blanket. He had had a terrible night. No matter which way he turned, there would always be a part of his body that wasn't comfortable. It would be his shoulder on the hard floor, his back or his legs, because there was not enough room. Distantly, he put his mobile in his pocket, even though he knew he wouldn't notice if there was a new text.

And yet, Sherlock had been but a few feet away from him, completely naked and John could not say that it didn't affect him. The hours he had been lying awake, he effectively had been thinking about his naked friend. But he was not gay. That was as much as he knew. John had dated girls, the last being Sara and all of his girlfriends had dumped him, because of what he assumed was a lack of attention. All of them had complained about the amount of attention Sherlock received from John. But were they right? Did John feel something for his best friend? And even if he did, how about Sherlock? John knew nothing about Sherlock's love life and he was determined to keep it that way.

John took his mobile out of his pocket again. He unlocked it and stared at his wallpaper. It was a picture of him and Sherlock at Halloween. It had taken John weeks to convince Sherlock to dress up, but eventually he did. The two boys smiled at the camera, one dressed as a pirate and the other one as a doctor. John smiled thinking about that night. They had had fun, even though Sherlock was determined not to.

John was brought back to the present by an incoming text.

_Don't wait too long, you'll get sick. - SH_

John smiled at the text. He could not say that to Sherlock without him getting angry, but it was okay for Sherlock to be concerned about John's health.

_I won't. Stop worrying._

John knew that within the minute he would get a text back from Sherlock saying that he wasn't worrying, that he was just making sure he was alright.

And John was right. _I'm NOT worrying. - SH_

John took a look outside and decided that the storm was over (or at least over enough) and that it was time to get back to Baker Street, where Sherlock would be waiting for him. 'If he asked nicely, would Sherlock make tea?' He wondered. Probably not, but it was worth a shot. John took out his mobile and focused all his attention to the little thing while he was typing. He didn't even glance at the street to make sure there were no cars driving by.

_The Doctor watched as the boy walked to the other side of the street. He was about halfway when a big SUV came racing around the corner. No way John would make it to the other side in time before the car would grab him and make sure John would be in the hospital for at least a few weeks, in the most optimistic turn of events._

_The Doctor made the TARDIS ready for departure. Maybe this is why he was showed this, he had to save the life of a young boy who would, later in life, become the most important person on Earth. So the Doctor did what he thought was right._

_As soon as the TARDIS had landed, the Doctor jumped out and ran towards John. Just in time, he grabbed him and made sure John was safe and sound._

_The boy looked at him with wide eyes, not believing how lucky he had been._

_He stammered a few words to thank the stranger that had saved him._

_The Doctor turned around and walked back to the TARDIS. When the boy called out that he didn't even know his name, the tall stranger shouted 'I'm the Doctor,' and he had closed the door._

 

Not knowing what to make of this, John got his phone out again and texted Sherlock.

_Could you come and pick me up? I'm at Cramer Street._

John felt the shock coming in. His breath accelerated until John had trouble breathing. 

Luckily for him, Sherlock just came running around the corner, a paper bag in his hands, ready for anything.

'What happened?' Sherlock asked, before he was close enough to notice John was hyperventilating. As soon as he did though, he handed John the bag and forced him to breath in it until his breathing slowed down.

Sherlock repeated his question.

'Almost dead,' John said, 'Car, almost hit, texting you. Doctor saved me.'

'How many times have I told you not to text while walking on the street,' was what Sherlock wanted to say, but he realized that that wasn't what John wanted to hear right now. All he wanted was to get home with him, change into some dry clothes and get into bed.

Sherlock wasn't really surprised when John, lying in bed, asked him to stay with him until he fell asleep.

So Sherlock watched him, even after his breaths had become more even, slower and deeper.

 

The first thing Sherlock wanted to do as soon as John woke up, was ask him about the day before, but when John actually got up and Sherlock saw the state he was in, Sherlock forgot about that intention and was completely focused on getting John healthy again.

But it was of no use, the young doctor just did not get better. The first day after the accident, John was just tired and slept the whole day, but with every day that came and passed, John seemed to get sicker. He preferred to stay either in bed or in the sofa and the times he got up, he walked with a slight limb. Even though nothing had happened to his leg, John just couldn't get rid of it.

A month after the accident, Sherlock decided to finally address John about what happened. But it was of no use, John just sighed and mumbled some words. He looked so utterly defeated that Sherlock didn't dare to ask John to repeat it.

John's mood started to have his effect on Sherlock. Normally, John was the only person who was able to cheer him up with a witty remark or even a cup of tea. But now John wasn't in any state to cheer himself up, let alone anyone else, Sherlock felt himself sink in a deep, deep depression.

 

_'Great,' the Doctor thought, 'Now they are both depressed.' He felt his own happiness slip from him, as if the image itself had the powers to do that._

_'I should have never saved that boy,' the Doctor said out loud, even though there was no-one to hear it._

_'You were right to do it, Doctor,' a voice said, coming from behind him._

_Startled, the Doctor turned around._

_'Did you miss me?'_

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

_'Did you miss me?'_

_The Doctor glanced at the guy who had appeared in his TARDIS. He looked unexpectedly ordinary with his short, brown hair and his suit that had obviously cost him a great lot of money. 'And who are you, exactly?' He asked._

_'You don't even remember me?' shouted the stranger, 'you were there!'_

_'Time traveler. Not doing everything in the right order.' The Doctor pointed at himself._

_'If I discover that you lied to me, even if a single word is off, I will find you and I wil sssssskin you,' sissed the stranger._

_'Why don't you just tell me your name, before you make more threats you can't possibly keep.'_

_'Jim. Jim Moriarty,' he said with a great deal of proud. 'The world's only consulting criminal.'_

_'So I've got thank you for giving Sherlock cases over and over again?'_

_'Ah, so you've met Sherlock. I told you, you already know me.'_

_'I haven't met Sherlock. I met John briefly, though, but that was only because I was trying to save his life.'_

_'I will ask you this politely, but if you don't do what I want you to do, I will burn you, I will burn the heart out of you!'_

_'Yeah, yeah, yeah. I've heard enough of the threats. Isn't there anything else you can say?' the Doctor said, 'I don't burn anyway. Well, not that hard. Well, maybe I do burn, but I've got my sonic screwdriver and that little thing will save me from anything.'_

_'I want you,' Moriarty chose his words carefully, 'to bring me to Sherlock's childhood.'_

_'What? No! I'd never do that! Why don't you get yourself your own TARDIS? Because I'm never going to do what you ask of me.'_

_'You've got one last chance, human,' Moriarty spit the word out like it was the worst insult in the world. 'Bring me to Sherlock's childhood.'_

_'Oh, but that's where you're wrong.'_

_'What? I'm wrong? I can't be, I'm never wrong!'_

_'I'm not human, nor will I ever be. Do your research. And now, leave. Me. Alone.' With one single movement Moriarty got thrown out of the TARDIS._

_The Doctor turned back to the screen and continued to watch John and Sherlock._

 

Sherlock sat on the swing. He wasn't swinging, but he was observing a young boy at the other side of the playground. Distantly, Sherlock moved his feet to rock the swing a little bit.

The boy. John Watson. He had asked Mycroft, his older brother, who already attended primary school, to find out his name. Mycroft had looked strangely at him, like he was surprised Sherlock was interested in another human being. And he had been right, it was so unlike Sherlock. But why, where did this sudden interest in the blond boy, who was a few years older than him, but not more than three, come from? And why now? His mum had said something last week, over dinner, something about making friends. Sherlock always had had trouble making friends, not knowing when to shut up and listen. That was one of the reasons most kids hated him. He recalled his mother yelling at him, word after word after word. The speech had relatively quickly been deleted, there was no need for him to remember his mother's angry words, because he knew bloody well why she had said them. He wasn't the perfect kid and he knew that. He tried to change, he had said to himself many times that now it was finally time to change, to shut up and just listen. But nobody had ever been interesting enough to shut up for, until he met John. Well, he hadn't actually met John, but Sherlock liked to fantasise about the two of them being best friends. John was a perfectly liked kid, maybe not by the teachers, but everyone else liked John. Sometimes even the teacher who had caught the boy doing something he wasn't supposed to couldn't resist his smile in combination with the puppy eyes he'd show. Because that's who John was: a lucky boy, an ordinary fellow.

Sherlock had put his stuffed animal in his backpack this morning, secretly, so Mycroft didn't find out. Mycroft would accuse him of being involved, whatever that might mean. Sherlock promised himself that, if he succeeded talking to John Watson, he could go inside and hug it for a few minutes, maybe even show it to John.

John was climbing on some tires the school had cut in half and put on the play ground. On the outside there were the two smallest ones, and the more you went to the circle of the group, the bigger the tires became. The older kids, from Mycroft's class, had a game where they challenged each other to run to the top of the highest tire without using their hands and by the age of twelve, most of the children had done it a thousand times. But the first time is always special. You had to overcome the fear of falling, make sure you had enough speed and most certainly, hold your hands out to be able to catch yourself if you would fall. And that's where it went wrong. John, who was challenged by his friends for the very first time, got overconfident and picked the biggest one. Even before John charged the big thing, Sherlock already knew it was going to end badly. John didn't care about his hands, they were just swinging around somewhere. He got halfway, not a bad result for a first try, but going down was a bit of a problem. John fell backwards, headfirst.

 

Sherlock had moved before he even realised he'd decided to go to John. There was no way he would get there in time to prevent John from hitting the ground, but Sherlock had read a book a few weeks earlier about the nervous system and there had been an entire chapter about how to deal with potential brain or other nervous system damage. Not even five seconds after John had hit the ground, Sherlock was on his knees next to him, trying to make John count to number of fingers he was holding in front of his face.

While John was protesting that the fingers where way too close to his face to see them properly, Sherlock observed that the teacher who had seen the accident happen was still at the other side of the playground, standing there, mouth wide open, pupils probably dilated, not believing what had just happened. Another teacher, closer to where John was still lying on the ground, had just turned his back away

'John,  John. John. Look at me.' Sherlock tried to get his attention. 'Are you okay?'

'Yeah, I'm fine. That was awesome, I'm trying again!' John jumped on his feet, way too soon and way too quickly, but he quickly decided that it was probably not the best idea ever when the nausea hit him

'You should lie down, at least for a few more minutes, until I'm sure you don't have a concussion.'

Sherlock put his hand on John's forehead, gently pushing him back down. As soon as John layed down, he closed his eyes, as if the light was too bright for his eyes.

'Do you have a headache?' Sherlock asked, going down the list of symptoms of a concussion in his head.

'No, not really,' John said, 'but I'm not so fond of the light at the moment.'

Philip Anderson, the friend who had challenged John in the first place, was standing next to Sherlock, annoying him endlessly.

'I think he might have a concussion,' Anderson said.

'Yes, thank you for your input. Now go and fetch a teacher, will you. John needs to get inside. And make sure they call a doctor! 

His shout had not gone unnoticed and the teachers finally came to see what had happened. But with them, came Mycroft Holmes.

'Sherlock?' John's voice was very small.

'Yes?' Asked Sherlock. Only later he realised he had never told the injured boy his name.

'Thank you.' And then John fainted.

The teachers took John away to bring him inside and later, when the doctor had examined him, to the hospital. It took a while before the teachers came back to the playground to ask what had actually happened. And during that time, Sherlock was left alone with Mycroft. 'Don't get involved, Sherlock. I've told you many times before.' 'What do you even mean with 'don't get involved'?' Sherlock tried to mimick the lower voice Mycroft had now. It had been cracking and hitting the wrong note from time to time, which always gave Sherlock a hard time trying not to laugh. 'You've said it so many times now and I still don't know.' 'Do you remember Redbeard?' Sherlock became pale at the mentioning of the name. And suddenly he felt sick. Like he had to vomit. In that moment he promised himself if he ever had to vomit in Mycroft's presence, he would on his shoes. But Redbeard wasn't something liked to think about. And what did the little boy do when he did not want to think about stuff? He insulted his brother.

'You're just a stupid little git, you know!' Sherlock shouted. 'You act like you are the perfect child, being number one of the class, being good in everything you do or want to do. It's not fair!' A little whine slipped in Sherlock's voice. 'It's not fair that you're perfect and that I have to come after you and try to be the same as you! And you know, Mycroft, every time they look at me, they see what you had done on my age that I haven't. And there are so many things that I've acchieved and you haven't. But no, they can't see that, because you had to bloody come before me!' During his rant, Mycroft had started to look more and more amused. 'A very wise book once told me that life isn't fair, and that Hary Potter's father knew that, but that's beside the point. Sherlock, you are still a child. Today, you have acted for a few minutes like the man you might become. And you say you want our parents to notice you for who you are? Well then, step out of my shadow.'

_The Doctor looked at the screen with a very good feeling. Everything would be all right if those two became best friends. A noise from the back of the TARDIS caught the Doctor's attention. He turned around, and because of that he didn't see the adult man with brown, short hair in his expensive suit in a corner of the playing ground._

_The Doctor decided the noise was nothing important and returned his attention to the screen again._  
Suddenly he remembered the two depressed men in 221B who desperately needed help.  
So, once again, the Doctor pushed buttons and the screen flickered.

_After an image of a very angry girl, alone in her room, typing, while her neighbours had decided to throw a party with teenagers making a lot of noise that lasted through the night, the TARDIS finally showed him the already familiar sitting room in Baker Street._

 

His head ached, John realized. The other thing he suddenly recalled is that he hadn't had a feeling in over a year now. For a year, since the accident with the car, he had been sitting here, in his sofa in 221 B Baker Street, waiting for a feeling to happen, to bring the real John Hamish Watson back. Because this is not him, this is not the recently graduated doctor, who could not wait to take on the world, this is not the small kid who jumped from high places just to try how long he could fall. Neither was this the kid who had fallen during his first challenge with the tiers and who had to be treated by a very young Sherlock Holmes.This was a man who had given up on life, and that was so unlike him.

'Sherlock,' John said, 'Are you okay?'

Sherlock looked up. John knew immediately that Sherlock was having a bad day. He actually didn't recall him having a good day in a long, long time.

And that was when it hit John: how blind he had been all these years, not only to the car, but also to himself and the other people around him. He may not be gay, but for Sherlock, he was. John would do anything for Sherlock: deal with his moods, get drunk with him and sleep in the same room, almost naked and even get dumped by his girlfriends. John had never actually wanted these girls, because he had been in love with Sherlock all these years, and now, he just couldn't hold it in.

So he kissed him. John kissed Sherlock. Not a quick greetingkiss on the cheeck, but a proper, tong-turning kiss, that lasted for about twelve seconds before Sherlock pulled back.


	3. Chapter 3

John loved it when he could surprise Sherlock. It was such a rare occasion that John always tried to remember every last one of them. And this one, the look on Sherlock's face after John had kissed him, was priseless.

Sherlock on the other hand, didn't like to be surprised. He just sat there, in front of John, not knowing what to say, traveling in his mind palace, looking for words. But he doesn't say anything, because all he wanted to say was 'I don't deserve this. John can do so much better than me.' And even though he was a high-functioning sociopath, he realised this was too much. So he tried to tell John another way what his words couldn't express; he tried it with a kiss.

Sherlock leaned into John, placed his lips upon John's and tried to tell his message.

'John. John, I love you. I love you so much, but I don't think this is the best for you. You can do better, so much better. But if you'll have me, I'll be there for you, I'll be by your side, forever and ever, because you're worth it. You're worth more to me than you could ever imagine, John, more than I could ever tell you. And everyday, I realise...'

Before the kiss could turn sour, it was John who pulled away this time, perfectly wel understanding what Sherlock was saying.

'There's no-one better for me than you, Sherlock,' he told him. 'And don't you ever doubt that. And I won't leave. I promise. Never.'

Sherlock's forehead touched John's when he sighed. It felt so good to get it out, to finally say what he had been thinking about during all those depressed days, looking at an equally depressed John. But it seemed to be over now, John was back: happy, loving and, above all things, his.

 

_The Doctor smiled. How he loved happy endings._

_The screen flickered again. Without any buttonpushing activities, the scene changed to the crying John again, alone in front of a grave. The Doctor couldn't quite make out whose name was on there, but guessing wasn't a problem._

_This ending was about to turn wrong and the he was not going to let that happen, not if he had anything to do with it._

_He'd decided it was about time he met Sherlock Holmes, so with a big, loud 'whoooch', the Doctor took off to London, to John and Sherlock in their midthirties._

 

John and Sherlock sat on their couch together. Well, lying was the more appropriate term for what they were doing. John pressed his lips against Sherlock's naked back, sending a shiver trough him.

'John,' he mumbled. 'That thing you just did... That was... Good.'

John chuckled. It was 'thank you' in the language Sherlock used. After so many years of living together, John had started to understand the underlying meaning of what Sherlock said. He'd better discovered it, since they were engaged and all.

John thought about that night, the night he'd asked the most important man in his life. He'd been so nervous. There had been a case, involving a murder at a jubilee. Sherlock had been making hatefull remarks towards marriage that the knot of nerves in John's stomach only grew tighter. After the case was solved, John had taken Sherlock to their favorite restaurant. There Angelo, the owner, had brought them a candle to make it more romantic, he'd said. And after the main course, John had gotten on one knee, taken out the ring and said: 'Sherlock, you're possibly the best thing that ever happened to me. And I want to make you happy the way you make me the happiest person on this planet. William Sherlock Scott Holmes, will you marry me?'

Sherlock had had a tiny tear in his right eye. Not that he'd ever admit it was there, but John had seen it and he had seen it roll down his cheek when Sherlock had said 'yes'.

'What are you thinking about?' Sherlock disturbed John's thoughts.

'Us,' he answered truthfully. 'And your tear when we got engaged.'

Sherlock smiled. He glanced over to his ring, a simple, gold ring with an engraving that said 'I promise.' He knew better by now not to argue about the tear, even though he was sure there never had been a tear. It was something sentimental, and he was above all that.

The first time they'd met Mycroft after they'd gotten engaged, Sherlock had been taken apart by him. Mycroft had held his little speech, like he had so many times in the past. 'Don't get involved, Sherlock.' is what me meant, though he didn't say in those words exactly.

When Sherlock had returned, John immediately had known what Mycroft had been trying to do.

'It won't work, Mycroft,' he had said. 'This is your brother's choice and it's his alone. So don't even bother trying to change his mind.'

Mycroft had left the flat with his proverbial tail between his legs.

The sound of the bell brought them both back to the present.

'Client,' they both said.

 

_There was nothing special about the font door of 221B Baker Street. Nobody could suspect great mind lived here, but of course the whole world knew, thanks to the stories of sir Arthur Conan Doyle._

_An old lady opened the door._

_'Hello, Mrs. Hudson,' the Doctor said. 'Can I come in?' Without waiting for an answer. The Doctor slipped past her and went upstairs, ignoring the 'How do you know my name?'_

_Upstairs, the pair was sitting in their chairs, waiting for him to sit down and tell them his case. John sat on his left and Sherlock on his right._

_The Doctor who had figured the empty seet in front of the two had been reserved for him, sat down and told hem his story._

 

Sherlock was annoyed. There was someone sitting in front of him who was refusing to tell him more than his rank. He hated mystery on both sides of a case. Plus, the man, who called himself 'the Doctor' had an air of arrogance around him.

'What can we do for you?' John asked.

'Don't be boring,' Sherlock added, which earned him a soft punch from John.

'I've got a problem.' The Doctor started. 'And the problem goes a bit like this: there is an escaped dog on the more. A giant escaped dog. My fault, a tiny bit.'

'The hound of Baskerville? We've already solved that case.' John looked as annoyed as Sherlock, but he didn't show it to the Doctor. Sherlock only saw it because he knew John so well.

John. Oh, how he loved John.

'Dang it,' the Doctor cursed.

'Ah, no cursing.' It had been a stupid rule John had invented when they had just started dating. He thought Sherlock cursed too much and he thought that was the way to stop him. Obviously it wasn't, although Sherlock did watch his language when he was around John.

'But 'dang it' isn't even a real curseword,' the Doctor said.

'It is to me. Now, do you have a problem that needs solving or are you here just to waist our time?'

'A problem. Right.' The Doctor scratched the top of his head and fell silent. He looked a lot like Sherlock when he got into his mind palace.

'Doctor, do you really have a problem?' John asked.

'Yes, yes, I do. Er... Just give me a second' The Doctor stood and started to walk. From his chair to the kitchen and back, over and over again. When he finally sat down, he started to explain his case.

 

_The problem was he didn't have a case. Not at all. The Doctor desperately tried to remember any future cases, but it was impossible. Nothing would come to him. So he decided to tell the truth, although not naming any names._

_'I'm a timetraveler.' He started. Immediately, he could feel a look of disbelief from both men. 'And I have a ship, the TARDIS. Time and relative dimension in space. There is a screen in there where I can watch anything, from the battle of Waterloo to the football match tomorrow evening._

_'One day, a man had appeared on that screen. Nothing special happened to him, he was just being dumped by his girlfriend.' The Doctor realised that what he had just said sounded very cold-hearted, but he relaxed when John nor Sherlock made any comment on it. 'And I got interested. I have never met anyone who is not important, not in the elevenhundred years of timetravel. So I went to his future and there was a broken man. I got more interested and started to watch his entire life. I even saved his life at one point. But then there was a man.'_

_John shifted uncomfortably, remembering where he had seen this man before._

_'What was his name?' Sherlock asked._

_'James Moriarty.'_

_He let that name sink for a moment. It had obviously taken Sherlock off guard, not expecting he'd turn up anytime soon. Not after the swimmingpool incident._

_When the Doctor continued, Sherlock and John exchanged worried looks._

_'Moriarty knew that I was ... Special. And he wanted me to bring him to your past, Sherlock.'_

_'What did you do?' Asked John, not being able to stand the mere thought of a young, vulnerable Sherlock having to stand up to an adult Moriarty._

_'I told him he'd have to find his own TARDIS, because I'd never bring him where he wanted to be. I also threw him out of my ship.'_

_An approving sound came from Sherlock._

_The Doctor looked at Sherlock's hand as it unconciously reached out for John's. When he saw the engagement ring slowely dissapear, he realised he'd made a huge mistake._

_Before John or Sherlock could even say anything, the Doctor jumped on his feet and ran off to his timetravelling ship._

 

Sherlock sat on the swing. He wasn't swinging, but he was thinking about a young boy. Distantly, Sherlock moved his feet to rock the swing a little bit.

There had been a boy, once. John Watson. Sherlock had tried to find out everything about this boy via Mycroft. Even though he hadn't approved, Mycroft hadn't been able to say no to his little brother.

But then the Day had come. The stupid Anderson had challanged John to do the most stupid thing a six year old could possibly do: run up a tire that was twice as big as him. John had accepted it, of course, that was the way the little boy lived his life: always proving himelf, showing he was worth the respect of others.

John, however, hadn't succeeded in running to the top and about halfway up, gravity had become too much and John had fel down, head first.

Sherlock had wanted to help the little boy, thinking this was the perfect opportunity to meet. John would have had to talk to him when he'd gotten better and it could have been the start of a wonderful friendship.

Alas, there had been a man. Sherlock had never seen him before, even though he knew most faces in the school, from the cleaninglady to the headmaster. The man had reached John first and Sherlock had seen a bottle, whose content had been carefully put into John's mouth.

Sherlock had tried to make a fus about it, but it had been of no use. The teachers had taken the boy to the hospital, where he had died from his headinjuries. Sherlock had never been able to shake of the feeling nagging in the back of his head telling him John's death wasn't natural. Pushing everyone out but Mycroft, Sherlock became once again the lonely boy on the swing.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	4. Chapter 4

Mycroft had been terrified when his mother had started to swell up. Of course, after his parents had told him what was wrong with mother and after he had done his research, he realised he'd get a little brother. A brother. Another human being. Someone who'd could keep him company on the lonely evenings when both of his parents were out, mother to her cardgame, like every two or three days, and father to his mistress. A companion. Yes, that would be a good title, the boy would be his companion.

Mycroft had never thought his mother would actually go into labour. He just imagined the boy would pop out of her, not hurting anyone. Mycroft's research had not been thorough enough, he now realised. But how could he have known. All the books, all the websites discribed pragnancy as something wonderful and the birth of a child as the best day of your life. Only this time, the mother hadn't wanted the child and that was something the little boy, the little Sherlock would take with him forever as his life started as a bloody little baby in the arms of his big brother, who swore on that moment that he would never let anyone lay a hand on his baby brother.

 

'I don't want to be your companion!' Sherlock yelled. 'I want to be a pirate or a beekeeper, or a beekeeping pirate.' He started the swing his invisible sword at Mycroft.

The little Sherlock had turned out to be quite special. Being able to speak perfectly English at the age of three, his parents had taken him to a place where they made him do a test. To measure his IQ, they had said. That's how it started at least. Every week, no every day, there had been new tests the scientists wanted Sherlock to take. And everytime Mycroft let them, his heart broke a little, knowing he was breaking the promise he made as a six year old.

But then there were times like this, when Sherlock was full of joy, a normal child, longing to be a pirate, longing to be an adult so that he could make his own decisions and the world would stop hurting him. Because every time Sherlock took a test, every time someone put a needle in his arm, A little bit of the child in him died. It had been no surprise to Mycroft that when Sherlock had been old enough to go to Elementary School, he had learned to hate all people, especially the ones that told him what to do.

 

Sherlock had been a terrible prat at school. The teachers hated him, because he was actually more clever than them and the kids hated him, because he was weird. There was only one kid in whom Sherlock would show any interest. John Watson. Mycroft had sniffed around in the schoolfiles, at the request of his little brother. He had done it to feel better, to feel less guilty about letting him go to the lab every day. It was at least a start.

With every piece of information he was given, Sherlock became more and more obsessed with the boy. Mycroft had never had any idea why.

There had been a golden opportunity for the two boys to meet. It had involved a couple of tires and a challange and had resulted in John's death.

When Mycroft asked Sherlock later that evening what he wanted to play he got the grumpy answer 'Only little kids play, Mycroft. Leave me alone.'

 

The lonely swingboy.

That had been Sherlock's nickname in Elementary School. In High School it had transformed to lonely toilet boy and in college, he had been smart-ass.

Mycroft often wondered why people always showed his brother their bad side. Always yelling, ever snce he was little, always ordering him around. Sherlock had liked the test in the beginning, just discovering things every breath. Then the world had turned boring. There had been no new things to discover. The tests had remained the same over the years, not challenging Sherlock anymore. Sherlock knew the tests by heart by the time he was five. At the age of seven he gave the explanation of the scientist simultaniously with the poor man or woman who had been assigned to look after Sherlock that day. Everyone hated him in the lab. Mycroft had only succeeded in convincing his parents to stop sending Sherlock there when it had been to late, when the damage had already been done.

Sherlock allowed only a couple of people into his life and Mycroft counted himself lucky enough to be amongst them. Until he ruined it.

 

Mycroft had only made one mistake in his life so far, but when his time had come to make one, he chose the worst of them all. Mycroft had, after a night of seeing Sherlock sobbing, broken by the words of his classmates, decided to tell Sherlock his promise.

He went into his brother's room and hugged Sherlock. Mycroft dispised signs of affection, but for his brother he could make an exception. He was surprised when he felt Sherlock actually hugging back.

'Why are you crying?' Mycroft wispered in Sherlock's hair while giving him a kiss.

'John... It's... It's a year ago since he died,' Sherlock sobbed.

The hug intesified.

'Sherlock, listen to me.' Mycroft let the little boy go a little. 'Caring is not an advantage. I said it to you before and believe me, it's terrible. But one way or another, I care about you. When you were only just born, I held you in my arms. You were tiny, so vulnerable.' Sherlock puffed when he said that. 'And I promised to myself I would never, ever let anyone lay a hand on you.'

Sherlock struggled to get himself out of Mycroft's embrace.

'You... Promised yourself that?'

'More like... I swore it to myself, okay.' Mycroft said. 'I was six, you were very adorable, I'd been wanting to become a big brother for months then and you were so, so vulnerable.'

'Well, brother dear,' Sherlock said sarcastically. 'Obviously you did your job very well, right?'

'Sherlock...'

'No, you know I'm right. All those scientist, all those tests, needles in my arm. You did a very good job of keeping me safe. But then something happened you couldn't prevent. I got involved. And it turned out rather badly. I know that. But, dear brother of mine, now leave. Me. Alone.'

Mycroft looked shocked after the words of his little brother. Of course he was right. Of course he hadn't been able to protect Sherlock from anything. But he had tried, he really had. Argued with their parents so that Sherlock could have a day at home instead of at the lab, getting poked at. But since he was the little boy and they were the grown-ups, he never stood any chance of winning.

'Sherlock?'

'You heard me. Get out.'

Mycroft immediately realised this conversation had been a mistake and there wasn't anything he regretted more.

 

 In college, Sherlock had discovered drugs. He wasn't scared of needles and he was perfectly capable of calculating the portion he could take without doing an overdose.

Mycroft had been worrying, like always, but Sherlock had started to loath him ever since their little conversation on the anniversary of John's death, so he had to be sneaky about his worries. He would make sure anyone who helped Sherlock to get drugs was either expelled or sacked. Sherlock soon realised that school was not the place to find drugs, so he went to search elsewhere. Somewhere Mycroft couldn't control it. Sherlock knew very well that Mycroft was behind everything blocking his access to drugs so he tried to leave a message for Mycroft every time. Sometimes is was a note, sometimes the message was the person he chose but it was always adressed to Mycroft.

Mycroft found only one solution, making sure the brain of his brother was busy, had no time to be bored. He contacted a friend of his at Scotland Yard, Greg Lestrade since he still owed Mycroft a favor. Mycroft asked, no begged him to let his brother in on his cases. To let him help.

It seemed to help at first. Sherlock was so busy catching criminals that he had no time to do drugs. Lestrade presented him with all the cold cases Scotland Yard had in his possesion and Sherlock solved every single one of them. But then the cold cases had run dry. And suddenly, Sherlock had to deal with breaks between cases and he relapsed.

One day, Sherlock was drunk. Greg Lestrade had convinced him to go and have a pint with him and it had turned into more than one.

When Sherlock got back into the flat, he had needed drugs desperately. So he measured his normal portion. His brains didn't work properly due to the alcohol, so he made a mistake. A lethal mistake.

 

Mycroft recieved a call from Lestrade. He smiled. The detective-inspector had been a good friend to Sherlock and even to him.

'Hello, Greg,' he said.

'It's Sherlock. He has overdosed.'

Mycroft didn't even push the 'end call' button, he just ordered the nearest cab and drove straight to 221B Baker Street.

When he arrived there, Sherlock was lying on the ground in the kitchen, a red dot clearly visible in his arm and the needle still in his hand.

'Have you called the ambulance?' Mycroft yelled at Lestrade.

'No... Mycroft...' Lestrade swallowed. 'Mycroft, he's dead.'

Mycroft lost it: he yelled at anything and anyone in the room, mostly Lestrade, how unfair it was the world had taken his little brother away from him. He kicked the sofa's, he almost threw the violin out - Lestrade had only been just in time to prevent it - and eventually, he collapsed on Sherlock's chair.

Lestrade got to him immediately, covering him in a hug, which Mycroft gladly accepted.

'Oh Mycroft,' he sighed.

And then Mycroft cried in the shoulder of Greg Lestrade, the only human being who was allowed to thouch him.

 

There had been a funeral.

Everyone had been there, from Mrs. Hudson to someone Sherlock solved a case for to their parents. Not all of them were sad, not in the least. Some of them would litterally be dancing on his grave as soon as the coffin had been lowered into the ground.

Mycroft held a little speech. He tried not to cry by watching Greg almost the entire time. Mycroft never spoke to anyone about his fit when Sherlock had died. He wished he had been there for him. He wished he hadn't told his brother about his promise. If he had done things differently, would Sherlock still be alive? He couldn't bare to think about it.

After the coffee table, Greg took Mycroft to his house just outside of London.

'You need a break from everything, Mycroft. You just burried your brother. Please take a break.'

Greg hugged him and rocked him silently as he wept.

 

_The Doctor had never wanted this. Why had he even planted the idea in his head? It was obvious where Moriarty had found all the information he needed. He'd gotten inside the TARDIS, he could do it again, possibly when he was out, to recover data about his last trips. There was still one question, though: how did he get there, at that exact moment._

_He didn't care, the Doctor realised. The only thing that mattered to him was going back and preventing it from happening, saving John so that he could save Sherlock._

_Time could be rewritten._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about this rather sad chapter, but it was necessary. The Doctor had to see Sherlock's life without John. But don't worry, everything will be fine. I trust the Doctor.  
> If the time of my verbs isn't always quite correct, please forgive me, I wrote this at 1 am after watching ' The Third Star'.


	5. Chapter 5

_Oh, how the Doctor intrended to rewrite time. The boys were no fixed point in time, so there was no problem trying to change it. He had to. He owed them._

_Once he was inside the TARDIS, he tried to think of a plan. He was perfectly aware everrything only turned out fine when he didn't have a plan, but he really had to discover more about this Moriarty-figure to know how to defeat it. Know your enemy. Somebody must have said that, the Doctor thought. A Roman emperor, or a renaissance nobleman. He shrugged. And if nobody had said that, he could credit it to himself. He shrugged again. Don't let yourself get distracted. Think Moriarty!_

_'Now, how do you get to know your enemy when you're a timelord?' He asked himself. He really should find another companion. He had started talking to himself again._

_'That's right, you visit his timeline, preferably his own childhood.' The Doctor smiled. Oh, how he liked talking to someone who was as clever as himself._

 

James Moriarty stood in front of a big house. The front door was decorated with Greek collums, renaissance style. He didn't quite know wether he liked it or not. It looked so big for just his fathe and him. His mother had left years ago, as soon as she had realised what kind of boy her son was growing into being. He hated her, he couldn't be more pleased that she was gone.

Once they had entred the house, Moriarty realised that it would also be his father's office. There was a long hallway where he saw multiple doors, leading to different parts of the house. The first door on his right led to his sleeping quarters.he could come and go there anytime he liked. He had his own bathroom and toilet and toyroom, everything a boy at the age of seven could need.

The door opposite that brought him to his father's private rooms. His father had assured Moriarty he could come and knock anytime he wanted, but the message behind it had been clear: 'don't ever come near this door.'

The other doors either led to spare bedrooms or to the offices. No need for Moriarty to know the way there.

The night after they moved, Moriarty sat on his bed and cried. For the seventh time his father had picked out a large house to live in, even though his son had begged him to pick a small, comfortable one where they would actually find each other when they were looking for the other.

 

There was another house. Moriarty was ten now and his father had decided to expand his company and what better way to do it than by moving. He felt so terribly lonely. He was torn apart from the few friends he had managed to make - it had taken so much time to find some intelligent ones - and now he had to start all over again.

No, he decided. He wouldn't care anout any human from now on. Humans except himself were dull, not worthy of his attention.

But that wasn't quite true, was it? His father had thought it was a great idea to make sure he went to Elementary School, like normal people, because suddenly, he didn't have any spare time to teach Moriarty himself.

At that school, there had been a very interesting boy. He'd be the one in class always talking about the guns his father owned and how he was promised he could learn how to shoot them later. Most of the other kids just ignored him, but Moriarty was fiscinated by this kid, who showed very quick reflexes and precission - clearly destined to be a sniper - and who was obsessed with weapons. Moriarty's favorite pass time has always been 'let's murder people'. He was too young to actually do that, so he and the boy, whose name was Sebastian Moran, played 'murder'.

They were great friends, but the universe didn't like the two of them together, so it intervened.

 

A sniper aimed his gun at Sebastian Moran's head.

'Give me the hundred thousand quid, Head Master,' he bellowed, 'Or the boy dies.'

Moriarty stood there, powerless, looking at his best friend with a gun to his head. Sebastian was grinning like an idiot, loving every second of it. He was not afraid to die. In their games, Sebastian always was the one who sacrificed himself for a noble cause or to save his friend, whil Moriarty was the one. Ith the really smart plan who let other execute ut so he wouldn't get hurt. Others would call him a coward, but Sebastian had assured Moriarty nothing was farther away from the truth.

Meanwhile, the Head Master still hadn't answered the sniper, who started to grow restless. 'Do you want me to tell everything to these kids? Some of them will be shocked, tell their parents. You can forget keeping your job then.'

'I'll lose my job anyway. I can't stay here when there's an armed sniped who has obviously come for me attacking my school! Kill the boy, I don't care! I'll be gone anyway, so if you kill him, you will only find it harder to get away since you'll have a murdercharge against you. Go on then!'

The sniper pushed the boy away from him. Realising he would be of no further use, he shot the boy in the chest, in a place where he could still survive it if the teachers were quick. Using the distraction that caused, the sniper took off, to never show his face at that school again.

 

Sebastian had always hoped for a death in combat, but not yet. If you hung out with James Moriarty the way he did, he was in touch with death quite regularly. He'd never been scared of it, not really knowing what it was. But it became clear to him, there in that moment, as he felt his heart pumping all the blood out of his body.

He had fallen to his knees, the boy realised. Hands were around him, pushing on the wound, making him twitch. He was ready to go, he had no-one left anyway. His mother had been dead for nine years now and he only stayed with his father because of the guns.

Death would be the last thing he'd ever experience. No more shy hugs from Moriarty, no more homework - although that might be a good thing, no more anything. Until he felt something change in the hands surrounding him. Two smaller hands had started to touch him. When he looked up, he looked into Moriarty's eyes, the most beautiful eyes in the world.

He saw dread in there. Dread and revenge. That's how Moriarty worked: if he didn't get what he wanted, nobody did. He'd revenge this death, he would revenge it untill he dropped dead, and even after his own death, he'd still try.

 

_That was the problem, the Doctor realised. Moriarty had been lonely his entire childhood, even as an adult, he hadn't had any friends like Sebastian. When he learned Sherlock had been saved by John in his childhood, he couldn'tbare the thought of them having a happy ending._

_Moriarty had never cared were he would end up in Sherlock's past, if it was in time to kill John before they grew up, he'd be happy. It wasn't just Sherlock and John he let suffer thriugh this, no, more famous best friends would follow if Moriarty effectively had found a way to travel through time and space. He had to be stopped and there was only one person who could. The Doctor._

 

_The Doctor programmed his TARDIS to bring him to that unfortunate day. First he had considered arriving three days earlier, but he would have had to kill time and he was rubbish at that, he needed to be doing something, to have a purpose._

_He parked the TARDIS around a corner and hurried to hide himself somewhere in the building Moriarty and Moran called their school. The Doctor was determined to save Moran, even if it costed him his own life. No, he'd prefer to walk away from here with his life._

_The sniper reappeared on the roof, pulling Moran close to him and pointing the gun at his head. So far, everything went as planned. Like he had in the version the TARDIS had shown him, the boy didn't even struggle against the grip of his attacker._

_And this was where the Doctor stepped in. He came out of his hiding spot and said: 'Hello, I'm the Doctor. Here to help.'_

_Everybody stared at him._

_'I wouldn't do that if I were you,' the Doctor continued, ignoring the looks he recieved from everybody._

_'You can't tell me what to do!' The sniper roared. 'If I want to shoot this boy, then I will and there's nothing you can do or say to stop me!'_

_'Oh, but there is...' The Doctor face the Head Master. 'You've found proof that this man has been abusing children. First you tried to blackmail him, but you lost your patience and went here. By now, you must have realised your blackmail will never work because no matter what you publish or what you say to the press, this man is going to lose anyway. A man with a gun, pointed at a students head? No, that would never be allowed. Can you imagine the faces of the parents when they find out? Ooh, that would be amazing!' The Doctor did a little happy dance. 'Nope, it wouldn't be. Don't get distracted. Anyway, you've got no other choice that to run and hide and hope the man won't charge you with anything. Now, there's only one more thing. Let the boy go, he's innocent. He has done nothing wrong.'_

_'He has done everything wrong!' The sniper shouted. 'Don't you know who his dad is?' It was quite obvious the doctor hadn't._

_'There was a man, John Loose, who was my best friend through high school and college. We had sworn to be each others beet friend for ever and ever! And then this man, his father, turned up, talking to John, offering him jobs and friendship and in the end, John just dropped me, forgot me! He has stolen my best friend!' The man started to cry. 'I was so lonely...'_

_The Doctor sighed. Everything seemed to revolve around lonely humans and best friends being lost. Incredible how loneliness brought out the worst in people._

_The sniper lowered the gun. Sebastian saw his chance and ran away from his attacker, right into the arms of Moriarty. He was safe._

_The Doctor sighed again, relieved everyting had turned out all right. It had, hadn't it? There was only one way to check and that was by going back._

_For the last time, the Doctor went back to Baker Street, where a confused John and a irritated Sherlock were waiting for him._

 

Sherlock as well as John was surprised when the Doctor came barging in again. They had suspected he had run out of shame and they'd never see him again. Clearly they had been wrong.

'So, what happened after you threw him out of the TARDIS?' John asked.

'Oh, nothing,' the Doctor answered nonchalantly. 'I never saw him again and I don't think I ever will. But that wasn't the point of my visit, I only wanted to congratulate you with your wedding. When is it by the way?'

'In three weeks, on the 18th of June.'

'The day of the battle of Waterloo,' the Doctor mused. 'You couldn't have picked a better date. The weather is going to be excellent.' After those words, he got up and left the flat.

John punched Sherlock. 'I never even thanked him for saving my life!' He jumped out of his chair, like the Doctor had only just minutes ago, and ran downstairs, trying to get hold of the Doctor once more. When he was standing in the doorway, he couldn't see the Doctor anywhere, but he did hear a sound. 'Whoooch... Whoooooch... Whoooch...'

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here ends the first fanfic I ever wrote. It's one of the first stories I ever completed and it was something I never expected. Thank you for reading it. Thank you Sara, for reading it first and telling me how amazing it was (it helped me feeling confident enough to post it). Just thank you. I hope you enjoyed this little trip with the Doctor.


End file.
